


Textual Promise

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Emotionally Constipated Derek, Future Fic, Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Past Danny Mahealani/Stiles Stilinski, Pining Derek, Pining Stiles Stilinski, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Rough Sex, Use your words Derek, but the good kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 20:46:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13198251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Derek stares at the text for a long time before he goes for a run. Because this? From Stiles?This isn't something they do.He still says 'ok'.





	Textual Promise

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this [post](https://areiton.tumblr.com/post/169077851122/ladydrace-via-eeyore9990-well-nowi-need) on Tumblr and had to write it. Because I'm not working on anything else right now (I totally am)

He’s in the middle of his workout when his phone buzzes. He finishes his sit ups, a pleasant burning ache in his muscles before he rolls to his feet and glances at the message. 

 

_ From Stiles: _

_ Tomorrow I'm fucking you for a few hours. Get some rest.  _

 

It takes reading the damn thing three times before it actually makes sense and then the hot burn of the shift washes over him, fangs snarling up the broken  _ fuck _ he lets out. 

Because, this. This is  _ isn't  _ them. Stiles texts him, but it's usually a reminder about pack shit, research for whatever new monster wandered into their territory, an update on the pups. 

It wasn't ever this. 

He'd spent the first three years he knew Stiles forcing away anything that even hinted at this. Ignoring the reek of arousal and the stolen stares, the way Stiles would watch him, avid and hungry. 

And sure there was the saving each other. Even when he was pushing the boy away, Derek couldn't quit protecting him. But for so long it was a matter of age and then he was gone and he came back to a Beacon Hills that was still dangerous, still tense and on edge, but it was settled, too. 

Older and more sure of itself, grown into its strength. 

Stiles was like that, calmer and confident in a way he hadn’t been before, still lithe and easy to dismiss, but with a sleek strength in his broad shoulders, hidden in his flannel and layers. And he smiled at Derek, warm and distant, before he drove away, and he never once smelled like  _ want.  _

So he put it away. He took what he was given--friendship, an ally,  _ pack _ . And he didn’t ask for more, didn’t make it weird when he wanted so much fucking  _ more _ . 

Stiles came home, and he smelled like sex and men, and he filled up the empty places in Derek’s life with research and endless rambling monologues and if Derek wanted a lifetime of it, he didn’t ask for anything Stiles didn’t give. 

But he  _ did  _ want, and this--he stares at the text, his heart pounding too hard, and starts typing before he realizes he has no fucking  _ clue _ what to say. 

He goes for a run in the preserve, but even five miles isn’t enough to knock that casual promise out of his head. 

It’s not enough to kick the low hum of arousal either, and he finally huffs and turns back to home. 

When he stomps inside, the phone is sitting there, innocently waiting for him. 

He snatches it up and punches in a text before he can think about it any more. 

 

_ From Derek:  _

_ Ok.  _

 

Then, tension tightening up his shoulders, he stalks into the shower to jerk off. 

 

~*~

 

The thing is, he doesn’t know  _ when _ to expect Stiles, or even what to expect other than sex and it’s making him fucking nervous. 

He’s cleaned the house, showered twice--once was to jerk off,  _ again _ , and he’s still sulking about it--and weeded the garden. 

He weeded the goddamn  _ garden. _

He’s waiting for the rattle of the Jeep, so he’s surprised when he stomps downstairs after changing into a clean shirt, and Stiles is there. 

His eyes are wide and his mouth is shock-slack and open, pink and fucking  _ biteable _ and he looks as off balanced as Derek feels. 

“You said ok,” he says. 

Derek shifts, falls back a step and it makes Stiles moves, makes him lunge forward to catch a handful of Derek’s shirt and he  _ shoves  _ him into the wall, and kisses him, this desperate wet thing that startles Derek for all of a heartbeat before he gets with the program and kisses Stiles back, biting at that wet mouth that he’s fucking  _ dreamed _ about, and Stiles whines, fingers flexing on Derek’s shoulders, like claws digging in and that. Derek breaks the kiss with a moan, his head tilted back, arching to grind his hard cock into Stiles. 

“You fucker,” Stiles mutters, biting at Derek’s neck and he pants, closes his eyes and struggles not to come, “You said  _ ok.”  _

He sounds almost hysterical, but it’s a distant concern, completely derailed when Stiles’ long fingers tug at his belt, fumbling it open and shoving Derek’s jeans and boxers down. 

Stiles makes a noise then, that sounds strangled and worshipful and  _ hungry _ and Derek whispers his name when Stiles rubs his thumb over the slit, nail dragging deliciously. 

“ _ Stiles, _ ” Derek pants when Stiles sucks his thumb in his mouth, catching the bitter salt taste of him, and he whines at the low groan Stiles gives, all pleased and wanting. “Stiles,  _ please.” _

“What. Tell me what you want.” 

Derek shoves him back and drops to his knees, pushing his ass out and in the air, and Stiles whispers, “Holy god.” 

The plug he put in (After his second shower, when he fingered himself open, fucked himself with his dildo as the water pounded down around him, when he closed his eyes and saw Stiles grinning at him, mouth pink and swollen and smirking as he fucked Derek, and came like that, moaning and untouched and  _ full)  _ is wide and thick, with an electric blue jewel on the flared base, winking prettily up at him. 

Derek knows what he looks like, knows how fucking obscene and debauched he looks right now, ass in the air, all stretched out and waiting to be used, and he doesn’t give a fuck. 

He only cares about Stiles, his hands gentle and reverent on Derek’s skin, the ghosting touch of his long fingers, tugging the plug free, rubbing over his swollen rim, pushing  _ in  _ and Derek cries out then, a noise that isn’t quite a howl, isn’t quite a sob. 

“ _ Stiles, _ ” he begs, and he doesn’t know what he’s begging for, really, just needs _ more _ .

Stiles makes a soothing little noise, and slips his fingers free and Derek whimpers, but then--

“ _ Oh fuck,”  _ he groans, and comes all over the living room rug, just from that, from the weight of Stiles against his back, shoulders pressing into his thighs, wet tongue swollen lips against his stretched out hole, the faint rasp of stubble against his thighs, and Stiles moans, fucking  _ moans _ into him, digs his fingers into Derek’s ass and fucks his tongue  _ into him _ . 

Derek loses time. Between coming and Stiles’ fucking  _ mouth _ . He isn’t really aware of anything except the need to press back into Stiles, wordlessly begging for more, until he hears someone panting harshly, broken by these little needy noises and sobbing pleas, and he realizes it’s him, he’s fucking _ begging _ for Stiles to fuck him, grinding back against his lips and tongue, riding the fingers Stiles has buried in him. 

He’d be ashamed but it’s  _ Stiles _ and he’s wanted this boy, this moment for so goddamn long and had resigned himself to never getting it. 

“You hard for me, big guy?” Stiles asks eventually, his voice raspy and deep and fucked out and Derek whines, not even coherent enough for words. 

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” Stiles says and he nods, this rapid bobble head thing, as he shoves up on his hands, arches his back and Stiles hisses a curse. 

He presses in without any warning, just a hot wet glide that makes Derek’s vision blur, makes his mouth drop open in a silent cry as he pushes back for  _ more _ . 

Stiles is panting and shaking, and  _ inside him _ and he blinks, blinks to clear his vision. Stiles has fallen forward, is leaning over him, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other cupped around Derek’s jaw, and Derek turns into that touch, finds his thumb and sucks it into his mouth, nips at it with teeth that aren’t quite human and Stiles snarls before he snaps, whatever control he was clinging to shredded. 

He fucks Derek hard and fast, a brutal punishing rhythm and Derek groans, rolls his hips back to meet each hard fuck, screams when Stiles shifts his angle just enough to hit his prostate and then Stiles hums, a pleased little noise, and takes Derek apart. 

It’s hard and fast and fucking perfect, and he can feel it, the liquid heat of his orgasm pooling in the base of his spine, lighting up his nerves, and Stiles murmurs in his ear. 

“Next time, I’m gonna go slow. Take my time to make it good and gentle. Promise, baby.” 

He isn’t sure if it’s that quiet promise, or the way Stiles is still relentlessly fucking him, or the way Stiles presses his mouth to Derek’s neck, open and wet with a hint of teeth, or maybe it’s  _ everything _ but he comes like that, the taste of Stiles on his tongue, the air full of Stiles’ spicey arousal, his body filled up and singing with Stiles. 

He comes with a howl, and Stiles fucks into him once, twice, and then he makes this noise, this tiny quiet sound that’s almost lost it’s so quiet, just the barest whisper of  _ “Derek,” _ as he comes, wet heat filling him up and Derek groans, his dick twitching once more as Stiles shudders through his orgasm. 

They come down slow, with soft touches and quiet kisses, and Stiles’ never stilling fingers, pressing into his skin, ghosting over his nipples, playing over his puffy rim, pressing his come back into Derek’s body. 

It takes him a few tries, tongue thick and sex stupid, but he gets it out. “You didn’t mean that text for me, did you.” 

Stiles is quiet and perfectly still, so unlike Stiles it makes Derek twist to look at him. 

“If it wasn’t for me--why are you here?”

Stiles rolls onto his back, not looking at Derek and he lets him, lets him hide because he understands the discomfort of being vulnerable. He pets Stiles’ hip almost absently and waits. 

“I--Danny. We have a thing. Not emotions for either of us, it’s just sex. But it makes it easier to be around you without reeking of want and arousal.” 

Derek is quiet, and then. “You want me?” he asks, voice small. 

Stiles snorts, all bitter and self-deprecating. “Yeah, dude. I’ve always wanted you.” 

Derek rolls over, draping himself over the younger man and presses his face into Stiles’ neck. “Same,” he mumbles. 

Stiles inhales, a sharp shocked noise, and then he drags Derek up for a kiss that is---

Startlingly soft. Sweet. A quiet, lazy exploration, all sweeping tongues and wet sliding lips and soft nipping teeth. It’s gentle and full of promise and everything that they didn’t take time for, before. 

“I’m gonna cuddle you,” Stiles says, “And then we’re going to make love--don’t laugh at me, Sourwolf!--and I’m gonna take you home to have dinner with my dad.” 

This time, Derek doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t run for hours to figure anything out. He just curls closer to Stiles and murmurs, sleepily, “Ok.” 


End file.
